you are no stranger than i
by tangeton
Summary: "That's fantastic—wait, are you high?" In which Detective Sergeant John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes, five years earlier.


**Part 1:** ** _In which a detective meets a detective_**

Detective Sergeant John Watson was not the worst Detective at Scotland Yard, per se, but perhaps that was just his (much-abused) ego talking. Like any other detective officer, John was assigned to cases, spent many a sleepless night toiling over them, solved them, filled out reports, went home and repeated the process.

It was, in essence, a very absorbing routine. It was no wonder that he couldn't hold onto a girlfriend.

That, and probably the homicide cases. Not the ideal first date, John groused, as he stood over the body of a social worker on the pavement, nearing middle age, blood pouring out the side of his head. Must've been one hell of a concussion, he thought as he stared somewhat morosely at the sight. He picked up his notebook and started his investigation.

It was when he was examining the deceased's shoes that he heard a commotion in his peripheral.

"This is a crime scene, sir, can't you see the yellow tape?"

"Yes, and that's precisely why I'm trying to get in! The man wasn't killed here, you idiots, look at his trousers! Chemical stains, he was poisoned, likely by his brother because of family business. Bland case of nepotism, squabbling over the management after their parents' deaths. Unhand me, you idiots!"

John felt hysterical. It was really too late for him to be dealing with this. He straightened from his crouch to look for the source of the commotion and found it at the edge of the crime scene.

It was a very gaunt young man no older than his mid-twenties, struggling against two of his own constables. He had a head full of dark, curly hair as well as phantasmically pale skin, giving him a very 'I'm near-death and/or dying now' look. He was wearing a very flappy black wool coat over a designer suit, topped off with a blue scarf.

The Detective Sergeant hurried over to the scene with the intention of breaking up the commotion. "Hey, hey! This is a crime scene, there'll be no trespassing allowed!"

"Yes," the young man said sourly, "with the number of times you all have repeated 'this is a crime scene' to me you'd think _I'm_ the idiot. Ridiculous." It was then that he finally seemed to notice John, and his eyes sharpened as he scanned over John's form. "Oh, Detective. Sergeant, am I correct? Finally, someone who might listen to me."

John pursed his lips at the other's arrogance. "Yes, I'm the detective in charge of this scene. Who says I'm going to listen to you?"

"Oh, but you've already listened to me. You heard my deductions already. Impossible not to from only twenty feet away." One of the constables yanked hard on the man's arm at the same time John bristled at the man's self-assured tone. "Oh, leave off. You'll be able to go home tonight if you just _listen to me._ "

John crossed his arms, trapping his notebook between his forearms and chest. It was two in the morning and indeed late. If the man could inspire any sort of thought that would jumpstart the answer to the solution, John would really appreciate it.

Not that he would tell the other. So self-assured. Didn't need any praise to inflate that ego.

"I'll consider it. Explain."

Pale eyes glittered. "The trousers. Small white stains are indicative of messy opoid poisoning, given support by the man's blue lips. The murderer was probably someone he trusted, possibly taken out to dinner and then drugged by the looks of how he's dressed for the occasion, but somewhat wary because his hair was given only minimal attention. Not quite deliberately casual. The murderer was clever in cleaning up the evidence, but really, how trite. The blow to the head was added later as a red herring, the time of death will prove to be found later than the blow to the head was induced. Admirable effort, but sloppy. It was probably a family relative employed at the same workplace as he, close, but not friendly. Brother was more likely, a guess."

John had wandered over to the body again, double checking the trousers and the blow to the head. It was a remarkable deduction, based on what they had so far.

His mouth decided to get ahead of him and voice his fascination at the same time he noticed the pale man's conspicuously deathly pallor.

"Fantastic—wait, are you high?"

"Fant—" the other blurted, sounding almost pleasantly baffled. "You really think so?" John shuffled over and grabbed his chin, twisting his face one way and then the other. John noted with horror the dilation of his eyes, the bloodshot color—even as they followed him around—as well as the high temperature he was running.

"Yes, but that's not the point. You _are_ high. How can I trust a druggie's deductions? You should be at a hospital, oh god."

"Well, that's not what people usually say," the other said in a pleasant tone that could only be achieved by those on an artificial high, and then promptly passed out in the two constables' arms.

* * *

Scotland Yard's awful cubicles. Otherwise known as the bane of John Watson's existence. Many in his division could say the same. Thankfully, he'd be getting an office soon, as one of his senior officers would be retiring.

Getting an office wouldn't change a thing about his working hours, but did wonders for his self-esteem.

John packed away the forensic report in the manilla folder of the case he was working yesterday, the one with the unexpected pointers from the strangely perceptive druggie. While he had waited for the background checks of the man to surface, he'd puzzled over the young man and his deductions. It had been something of a surprise that the other's conclusions had been mostly correct, other than the glaring fact that it wasn't the brother but a close cousin. But again, he had admitted that it was a guess, and they had been working at the same family-owned law practice, so John didn't have to look far. Interrogating the cousin wasn't bad, as far as questionings went. He slipped up, they convicted him.

Yes, John could have come to the same conclusion after getting the background report, but it was still a pretty amazing feat. For a druggie.

He couldn't help but wonder why such a perceptive young man would lose himself to drugs, but that was neither here nor there for him. He'd had his officers drag the young man to the Royal London for care. (He probably should have charged the man for drug abuse, but there was an odd sense of gratefulness for pointing him in the right direction. He'd be sleeping an extra hour or so tonight.)

John stretched out on his uncomfortable chair and rubbed in between his brows, closing his eyes in measured relief. He should have become a doctor. Saving peoples' lives instead of investigating their gruesome deaths. What a morbid job.

"Oh, John," John opened his eyes to see his cubicle-mate, Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade, peeking over the staunch, grey walls. "You're still here?"

John grinned. "Not entirely all still here. I'm dying for a good sleep back home. Question is, why're you still here?"

Greg sighed, running a hand over his face. John really pitied the man at the moment — the premature grey of his hair really amplified the aura of despair currently running off him in droves. "Still going over the case with the woman and her cats. It's ridiculous and I still don't get it." John nodded understandingly, but he wasn't about to volunteer to stay up with Greg, puzzling over the case Greg had been stuck on for almost four days now.

He checked his watch and sighed.

The druggie had saved him almost four hours of extra work. He might as well put that extra time to protecting London from the criminal classes.

"Want a second opinion?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Originally written 6 September 2012. Posted to AO3 26 October 2016. i'm sorry, i've accidentally misplaced my interest for this fic! but i might eventually come back to this later because _detective johnnnn, my love_


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